JD worked with my brother at a local golf course, but our interactions were always casual, group-style—friends among friends. That is, until 2006, when we reconnected on Match.com. JD sent me a simple “wink,” and we began chatting. Soon, he asked me out. Well… my entire family ended up joining us on that first date. When JD casually mentioned he’d love to meet everyone, I took him literally. Poor guy!
It wasn’t until we’d been dating for almost a month that JD admitted the truth. “I was just being nice,” he said, “I really only wanted to see you.” I laughed, apologized for misinterpreting him, and then my heart completely melted. Dating JD was effortless. It was fun, exciting, and filled with all the flutters and laughs that dating should be. We both knew very quickly that this was something special. We were falling in love, becoming best friends, and having an absolute blast along the way.
On the one-year anniversary of our first date, JD and I booked a cozy Bed and Breakfast for the weekend. After dinner, I wanted to give him his anniversary gift—a golf club he’d been wanting. I asked him to close his eyes since I hadn’t wrapped it yet. JD grinned and said, “Oh, good, because I didn’t get a chance to wrap yours either.” I pulled the club out from under the bed, presented it to him, and he lit up with joy.
Then JD said, “Okay, my turn… close your eyes.” When I opened them, he was down on one knee, holding a diamond—my grandmother’s diamond. He spoke of his love, of wanting to spend the rest of his life with me. I can’t remember every word because I was so stunned, but I do remember crying happy tears and saying YES over and over.
By May 2008, JD and I were married in a field, surrounded by family, friends, tacos, and a piñata. Our wedding was simple, joyful, and filled with laughter. We weren’t nervous that day—just genuinely happy, giddy even, and eager to start our life together.
Together, we built a beautiful family. Our daughters, Audrey, born in 2010, and Emmie, in 2012, were our world. Life felt perfect. We lived paycheck to paycheck, worked on projects in our little fixer-upper as funds allowed, kissed boo-boos, and navigated everyday stressors—but for us, life was full, rich, and wonderfully complete.
Then, on September 29, 2014, everything changed. JD died suddenly from a pulmonary embolism. My world came to a screeching halt. The Saturday before, we had attended a local wine festival with friends. That night, JD felt what he thought was a cramp in his calf. He took some Aleve, drank water, ate half a banana, and went back to sleep. The next morning, he mentioned it but insisted he felt well enough to play in a golf tournament. With a grin, he said, “Golf makes everything better,” in classic JD fashion.
He played, and they won. Audrey, Emmie, and I joined him for the awards dinner afterward, the girls cheering their Daddy on as always. Later that evening, we had a normal family routine—bathed the girls, tucked them in, and went to bed.
Monday morning started as usual. JD left for work early and sent me a text—a picture of a rainbow, mentioning his leg still hurt a bit, but he’d head home early. He never made it home.
A friend in law enforcement called to tell me JD was in what they believed to be cardiac arrest and would be airlifted to UVA Hospital. I left work, racing to him, hoping to join the flight. But when I arrived, JD had already been gone for nearly an hour, inside a CVS pharmacy just two miles from our home. He had likely felt tightness in his chest, stopped to check his blood pressure, and then… he was gone.
The surreal shock of that moment is indescribable. I whispered to him, “I’m here now, you can get up… JD, I’m here now.” That was the last time I saw him.
JD had a gift for making everyone around him feel seen, loved, and special—especially me. We laughed endlessly, supported each other fully, shared inside jokes, and loved fiercely. I truly felt complete in his love. And then, in an instant, he was gone.
At 38, I became a widowed mother of two young daughters. Life felt like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. I had always planned, controlled, and organized—but this wasn’t part of the plan. I didn’t know how to live without JD. I didn’t want to.
Soaring Spirits International and Camp Widow became my lifeline. Meeting other widows who “got it” reminded me I wasn’t crazy, that grief was a shared human experience, and that yes, I could move forward. With their support, and with the love of family, friends, my daughters, and even small comforts like bubble baths and nature, I found my footing.
Six years after JD’s death, I can say I am genuinely happy most days. I’ve regained my sense of self, and life feels almost normal again. But I miss him. I miss our love, our companionship, and the life we built together.
Two years after JD’s death, I felt ready to date again. But dating as a widow in your forties is… complicated. Some experiences were lovely, some tragic, some laughably awkward. One man told me he was glad my husband was dead to avoid “baby daddy drama,” while others assumed I needed saving. Some men were jealous of JD even in death. Yet, I also met genuinely wonderful people who became friends. I learned that while JD will always hold my heart, it can also grow to love again.
Death changes your perspective. I cherish small joys more, overlook petty frustrations, and feel blessed for the simple moments with my daughters, who carry so much of their Daddy in them. Our life as three continues, rich with love and memory.
Every year, we honor JD with the JD Dickinson Memorial Golf Tournament & Silent Auction, raising money for local scholarships and programs for children. We also spread joy with Random Acts of Kindness cards in his memory. JD’s impact on this world was profound, and through sharing his story, his love, and his light, we keep him alive in the hearts of all who knew him.
